The Little Death

Chapter Three

It was nearly two-thirty by the time they left Ta-boo. Louis had called Lieutenant Swann, who said that if they came right over, he’d have some time to talk to them. The Palm Beach police station was only a couple of blocks away, so they walked. The curbs were bumper-to-bumper with luxury cars, the sidewalks a mix of locals and tourists. It was easy to tell them apart. The locals were whippet-lean in sherbet-colored slacks and sheaths. The tourists trudged along in Nikes and fanny packs, Nikon necklaces hanging from their necks, ice-cream cones dripping on their hands.

A tall woman was coming toward them. Louis’s first thought was of a banana. She was thin, dressed in a yellow pantsuit, with sunglasses the size of grapefruits. She was dragging a spidery black dog that was determined to stop at a ceramic trough labeled dog bar.

Mel didn’t see the dog, and as the woman pulled at the leash, it cut across his shins. Mel groped for balance, and Louis grabbed his hand.

“What the fuck?”

“Stop it, Phoebe!”

“Louis, help me out here, or I’m going to drop-kick the dog into the gutter,” Mel said.

“You’re hurting Phoebe!” the woman yelled.

Louis managed to free Mel, and with a tinkle of gold bangles the woman dragged the dog away.

“You okay?” Louis asked Mel.

Mel pushed his sunglasses up his nose and nodded. “Any more animals ahead?”

“You’re clear.”

They walked on. It was at moments like this that Louis considered asking Mel if he ever thought about getting a cane. But it wasn’t the kind of thing even a best friend could do-force a man like Mel, an ex-cop, to acknowledge he was only one cockroach dog away from falling flat on his face in public.

They turned onto South County Road, passing more boutiques showing mannequins in fruit-colored capris and seascapes in heavy gilt frames. As they crossed onto a broad median dominated by a big fountain, Louis got his first look at the Palm Beach Police Department.

It was Aspergum-orange, with three roofed peaks of Spanish tile and wrought-iron trim. Except for the showroom-shiny police cruiser at the curb, it could have passed for a small Italian villa.

The station’s small circular lobby had the hushed, cool feel of a hotel. Louis recognized the small dome in the ceiling as a security camera. The uniform behind the information window offered them a practiced smile as his eyes traveled over Louis’s wrinkled khakis, blazer, and brown face.

It was Mel he addressed. “Can I help you?” the cop asked.

Mel just stared at the cop from behind his yellow-lens sunglasses. Louis stepped up to the window.

“I’m a PI from Fort Myers,” Louis said, showing his ID card. “This is Mel Landeta, ex-Miami PD. We’re here to see Lieutenant Swann.”

“Ah,” the cop said. “The lieutenant has been expecting you.”

The cop picked up the phone, and less than a minute later the door to the back of the station opened and a man appeared.

Louis was surprised that Lieutenant Swann was not in the standard blue uniform. He was wearing the same kind of street clothes as Louis, but his blazer was pressed, his khakis razor-creased, his loafers glossy, and his peach polo shirt didn’t look like it came from the sale bin at Sears. His skin tone, build, and cropped blond hair were those of a lifeguard, but the pillowed face gave him the look of a man who ate too much rich food. Still, he had a little cop in him; it was there in the cunning brown eyes.

“I’m Andrew Swann. Welcome to Palm Beach, gentlemen,” he said, extending a hand to both Louis and Mel. “Would you follow me, please?”

They followed Swann down a hallway lined with portraits of gold-braided police officers and men in dark suits shaking hands. Swann’s office was flooded in sunlight from two tall windows. Beyond, Louis could see a small courtyard with stone benches set in a blaze of magenta bougainvillea hedges.

“Can I get you some water?” Swann said.

“Yeah, thanks,” Louis said.

“Me, too,” Mel added.

After Swann had left the office, Louis went to his glass-and-chrome desk. The spotless surface held a gold pen stand with Swann’s name engraved on the base, a white phone, a blank desk calendar, a framed photograph of a big red dog, and a stack of papers. They were the officers’ daily log sheets. Louis turned the top one so he could read the entries: lost dog in the vicinity of the public beach; bike stolen from Publix; elderly person ill in Bradley Park.

“Where’s the ashtrays and dirty coffee cups?” Mel asked.

“There aren’t any.”

Louis positioned the log report back in its spot and turned to a bank of teak file cabinets recessed in the ivory walls. Above the cabinets on an otherwise bare wall, Swann had displayed his honors. There was a framed photo of Swann holding a trophy and clasped in a shoulder hug by a gray-haired man wearing the collar stars of a chief of police. Next to that was a walnut plaque for finishing first in a departmental training class on Beach Bicycle Patrol. Two certificates completed the display, the first one from the Optimist Club and the second an award for Departmental Officer of the Month.

Louis stepped closer to read the small type. Last August, an off-duty Swann had commandeered a tourist’s air mattress and paddled out into the ocean to save Mrs. Clarence Wright’s Jack Russell terrier from drowning.

The door opened. Swann stood there, holding three bottles of Evian. He noticed Louis looking at the certificate but didn’t say anything as he came forward and handed him a bottle.

“So, did Mr. Kent hire you?” he asked as he gave the other bottle to Mel.

“Not exactly,” Louis said. “It was just a preliminary interview. Kent’s afraid he’s going to be charged with this murder and asked us to work with the cops to make sure they don’t develop tunnel vision, if you get my drift.”

Swann’s water bottle stopped halfway to his mouth. “The case belongs to the county, Mr. Kincaid,” he said. “Our only involvement is to aid the sheriff’s office as needed and monitor the interview with Mr. Kent.”

“They needed your department’s permission to interview a murder suspect?” Louis asked.

Swann opened a drawer and retrieved a cork coaster for his bottle. It was stamped with the Palm Beach city seal.

“It’s to their benefit to extend us the proper courtesy whenever their investigations bring them across the bridge,” Swann said. “To do otherwise wouldn’t get them very far in this town. We’re very sequestered here, if you get my drift.”

Louis heard a soft crack and looked back at Mel, who had opened his Evian and was taking a long drink.

“To prove my point, I will let you in on something,” Swann said. “We had already run your plate, driver’s license, and criminal sheet by the time you walked into Ta-boo.”

“You doing a little racial profiling?” Mel asked.

Swann looked quickly to Mel. “We don’t profile here. We do run the plates of every dirty old car with a cracked taillight that crosses the bridge.” Swann turned back to Louis. “Your Mustang qualifies on both counts.”

Louis used the moment to take a swig from the bottle. He was beginning to understand why the sheriff’s office needed an intermediary, a local cop, to open doors in this place. He understood, too, that he and Mel weren’t going to get much information out of Swann, given his job as moat keeper. And it was probably a waste of time anyway. Mark Durand was murdered in the far western end of the county. His body was lying in the county morgue. Both places were miles and worlds away from here.

For the second time today, he was beginning to wonder why he had agreed to come here. He had never liked working for the rich. They tended to treat him not as a rectifier of their problem but as a distasteful reminder that something ordinary and sordid had touched their lives. Maybe that was why he was always so broke. He’d rather help some poor slob get his kid back for a couple hundred than sit surveillance on some rich dude’s cheating child bride for five grand.

But Mel had asked for his help, and he had relented out of friendship. Now he had to make an attempt, at least.

“Lieutenant, did you know Mark Durand?” Louis asked.

“Just by sight,” Swann said. “He hasn’t been in town very long.”

“Do you know Reggie Kent?” Louis asked.

“Everyone knows Mr. Kent,” Swann said. “He’s lived here for years and is a fixture here. People like and respect him.”

“Do you think he’s capable of murder?”

Swann blinked and raised a brow. It was an odd reaction from a cop who should have been used to making evaluations about anyone accused of a crime. But then, one look at the guy’s wall revealed that it was highly unlikely that Swann had ever solved a serious crime, let alone worked a murder.

“I’d really like your opinion, Lieutenant,” Louis said. “Have you ever seen a display of temper from Kent? Does he drink too much? Does he have a criminal history?”

“No, he has no record whatsoever, and he drinks no more than most people here,” Swann said. “I’ve never seen him lose his temper, either. In fact, that argument Mr. Kent and Mr. Durand had at Testa’s was about as angry as I’ve heard he’s ever become. It was most unusual for him.”

“Did this argument get physical?” Louis asked.

Swann hesitated, then went to the file cabinets and withdrew a paper from a manila folder. “One of our officers responded to a disturbance,” he said. “It began inside, and according to witnesses, Mr. Kent followed Mr. Durand outside to the sidewalk. The summary illustrates the level of violence.”

Louis took the report that Swann held out to him. It was written by a patrolman who detailed his intervention in what was described as a “minor verbal altercation.” The last line read: “The only property damage was a broken flower pot. Neither subject was injured.”

“Detective Barberry told me he was very pleased that we documented everything so thoroughly,” Swann said. “He feels this argument will go a long way in showing motive.”

Louis thought it was a little pathetic that Swann seemed to want this Barberry’s approval so badly. But he could imagine that Swann would be impressed by the gold-badge guy from the big department tossing him a compliment.

“Did Kent tell you that Durand wanted to move out and get his own place?” Louis asked.

“I heard that’s what he told Detective Barberry,” Swann said, “but if you want my opinion, Mr. Durand didn’t want to move out as much as he wanted to break up.”

“Break up?” Louis asked. “You mean, Reggie and Durand were…”

When Louis didn’t finish the sentence, Mel stepped forward. “Were they lovers, lieutenant?”

Swann nodded, amused at Louis’s surprise. “Of course they were. Everyone knew that.”

Louis looked to Mel before he addressed Swann. “Kent claims they weren’t. You have any idea why he’d tell us that?”

“Well, this is just my theory,” Swann said. “Like I said, I didn’t know Mr. Durand, but I got the sense he was having a little trouble with the closet door. Mr. Kent was always open about his homosexuality, but maybe he was trying to protect his friend’s wishes.”

Louis looked back at the report. He knew that a domestic partner was always the first suspect when a dead body turned up. And the fact that Kent and Durand had argued the night Durand was killed didn’t help Reggie’s case. Louis also knew that when one lover brutally killed another, there was often a third person waiting in the wings.

“Did you guys pursue the idea that maybe Durand was seeing someone else and you might have a triangle here?” Louis asked.

“It wasn’t our case,” Swann said. “And I get the feeling Detective Barberry wasn’t thrilled at the idea of hunting down Mr. Durand’s other bed partners. He felt he had his suspect.”

“But did the possibility occur to you?” Louis asked.

“Me personally?”

“Yeah, you.”

Swann took a drink of his water before he answered. “Yes, it occurred to me. Briefly.”

“I’ll ask you again,” Louis said. “Do you think Kent is capable of murder?”

“Maybe. But…” Swann said.

“But what?”

“You’d have to know Mr. Kent to understand,” Swann said. “I think the idea of chopping off someone’s head would simply be too repulsive to him.”

Louis laid the officer’s report on the desk. Swann had an interesting point. Not only was decapitation an indicator of extreme rage but the act required a taste for the macabre that normal people didn’t have.

So why was everyone so quick to believe this mild-mannered middle-aged walker had committed this crime? Why were they, as Kent said, trying to set him up as some sacrificial lamb?

“I’m sorry,” Swann said. “I have a meeting to attend. Allow me to walk you out.”

Swann held the door for them and followed them back to the front lobby. He said goodbye and left.

“Batzarro’s a polite little bastard, isn’t he?” Mel said.

“Who?”

“Swann.”

“Why’d you call him Batzarro?”

“Jesus, didn’t you read comic books when you were a kid?”

“No. Just tell me, all right?”

“Batzarro was a character in the old DC comic books,” Mel said. “He worked in Bizarro World and was the world’s worst detective.”

Louis looked back at the station door. “We’re not going to get any help here,” he said.

Mel held up his Evian. “But we got French water.”

A door clicked open and a uniform came out. “Mr. Kincaid,” he said. “Lieutenant Swann forgot to give you this.”

Louis went to him and took the slip of pink paper. It was a ticket. On the right side was a list of possible violations, everything from speeding to jaywalking. The box next to “Vehicle Appearance” was checked with a small X, followed by the neatly printed words: “Dirty with cracked taillight.”

“You’re giving me a repair order for my car?” Louis asked.

“It’s not a repair order,” the officer said. “It’s a ticket. Per city ordinance one-five-three-point-eight, all cars parked on the public streets must be in good working condition and inoffensive to the eye.”

“You have an ugly-car law?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

“How much is the damn fine?”

“Ninety dollars, sir. You have ten days to take care of it. If you do not, we will ask a judge to revoke your driver’s license.”

Mel chuckled.

The uniform left. Louis jammed the citation into his pocket and looked up at one of the security cameras. He gave a stiff salute, then pushed out the front door. He was yanking off his blazer as Mel came up to his side.

“Why didn’t you give him the finger?” Mel asked.

Louis managed a smile. “Let’s go see some real cops.”